


Frostnip

by jublke



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Bossy Sam Winchester, Brotherly Love, Chick-Flick Moments, Frostbite, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester is a Mother Hen, Schmoop, brotherly schmoop, frostnip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 15:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublke/pseuds/jublke
Summary: Dean gets chilled on a hunt and Sam thaws him out. Not Wincest, but a healthy dollop of brotherly schmoop and tenderness. Set in Season 1.





	Frostnip

**Author's Note:**

> It’s like this ... I really should be finishing my other stories, but they are vexing me at the moment. So - you get schmoop. Lots of schmoop.
> 
> Not mine, don’t own. Not beta’ed because this one really doesn’t have a plot.
> 
> Cross-posted at Fanfiction.net.

Sam had been on edge all day, but he couldn’t figure out why. From a lunch spent planning their hunt until they had chased the water sprite down a dock and through the frozen muck along the lakeshore near midnight, Sam kept expecting something to go wrong.

But nothing came of it. The hunt was fairly straightforward. Apart from the chill resulting from water-logged, filthy jeans and muddy, saturated boots, neither Winchester brother left the hunt with any new war wounds.

Dean had lost one of his gloves in the lake, but the only odd thing about that was that the older hunter had worn them at all. Usually his brother eschewed traditional winter gear, and frankly, it wasn’t even that cold out. Sam had raised an eyebrow when Dean had thrown two woolen beanies and several thick pairs of real leather gloves into the trunk of the Impala, but he had wisely chosen to bite his tongue. Their father surely would have approved of the foresight involved with packing the outerwear, and the last thing Sam wanted was to get into a fight with his brother about Dad.

It wasn’t until Sam was in the shower, having won the right to go first following a game of rock-paper-scissors (rock beats scissors), that he realized just how chilled he’d gotten. Maybe he’d needed the gloves and hat that he’d worn to appease Dean. The mild climate of Southern California had spoiled him, and Sam had forgotten how humidity could take a cold day and turn it frigid.

 _Dean must be a block of ice by now_ , Sam thought idly. And stopped, a hand mid-scrub through his hair.

A series of images flashed through his mind: Dean frowning when Sam had suggested a hunt further north. The way Dean had always dressed him in layers as a child, even when he protested. How Dean added even more layers now. His brother’s new habit of jamming his hands into his pants or jacket every time they went outside. The way that his brother never took off that damned leather jacket, even when it was boiling out. And the kicker: the fact that Dad had given his brother the jacket at all, given that it was one of his father’s favorites.

Sam scrubbed faster, praying that this fleabag hotel had enough hot water left over to warm his brother. Because something was wrong with Dean. His brother had never been terribly cold tolerant to begin with, but he hadn’t been like this. Something had happened to Dean while Sam was gone at Stanford. And the gift of the leather jacket pointed directly toward John.

Sam exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his waist, and gestured at the empty shower. “It’s all yours, man.”

Dean didn’t answer. He sat rigidly against the headboard of the twin bed nearest the door, fully clothed, damp clothes seeping sour muck into the bedding. Sam could see the muddy splotches from his boots and, yep, he was still wearing those too.

_Stupid idiot, not an ounce of self-preservation ..._

“Dean!” Sam called louder, and his brother looked up, wide-eyed and vacant. Sam’s stomach dropped. He gentled his tone and tried again. “Hey man. You okay? We need to get you cleaned up.” He wrinkled his nose for effect. “Smells like you’ve been crawling around in a sewer.”

His brother tightened his grip around himself. “C-c-cold.”

Sam quickly threw on clean underwear, a fresh T-shirt and hoodie, and slightly stale sweats before walking to his brother’s side. “I know you are. You should have said something,” he babbled. “Let me help you, okay?” He sat down next to Dean, but his brother pulled away.

“C’n do it m-m-m’self. ‘m f-f-fine.” His brother tightened back into a damp, shivering, smelly ball, looking all of about five. His chin jutted out defiantly.

“I can see that.” Sam tried to keep his voice calm. _Because this? This right here? Dean shutting down and regressing because he needs help and can’t ask for it? This is all Dad’s fault._ Sam could picture his father berating Dean for being cold, and it made him angry enough to want to punch something.

Sam wracked his brain, trying to think of how to get through to Dean. In John Winchester’s playbook of life, the only time you accepted help was if you sustained a serious injury and could no longer hide it. _If only Dean was bleeding, this would be so much easier. And how sad is that, wishing that my brother was bruised and battered so that I could help him?_

“Dean,” Sam ordered, standing and trying to sound stern like their father. “You’re showing signs of hypothermia. We need to get your wet clothes off.”

His brother lifted his dark-blond head and fixed Sam with a blank look.

“Dean!” Sam barked. He dropped back down next to his older sibling. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

As expected, his brother roused slightly at that, shaking his head. The trembling intensified. “Not s-s-sick, S-Sammy. Jus’ c-cold.” But he held his arms out, and Sam quickly divested him of the leather jacket. Dean fumbled with the buttons on his overshirt, and that was the first time Sam had seen Dean’s hands since Sam had emerged from the shower. Both were deathly pale, but the right had blotches of red and blue near the fingertips.

“Dean,” Sam breathed, thinking of his brother’s glove submerged in the muddy lake. He helped Dean out of both his plaid button down and his T-shirt, then took off his own hoodie and pulled it over his brother’s head, not bothering to work his brother’s arms through the sleeves.

“S’fine, Sam. I c-can feel my fingers.”

Sam swallowed that along with a sick realization that there must have been a time when Dean couldn’t feel his fingers. _Tonight? Another incident? Frostbite?_ He bit his lip and chanced the question. “Did you lose feeling in your fingers tonight, Dean?”

Dean shook his head. “F-f-frostnip. ‘year ago.” And then, as if he’d revealed some deep dark secret, Dean dropped his head.

Sam closed his eyes, digesting that. “Wait a minute.” His eyes popped open and he began to work at the damp laces of Dean’s boots. “I know what frostbite is. What’s frostnip?” He tugged off Dean’s left boot and worked off the damp sock. Make that two damp socks. Thankfully, Dean’s foot looked better than his hands, although it was icy cold between Sam’s large palms.

His brother moved to pull his foot away, but Sam held him fast. “Gradual warming, Dean. I can’t throw you into the shower until you’ve warmed up a bit.”

Dean growled back. “N-n-not a g-girl, S-Sammy.”

“Yeah, and when you can say that without stuttering, I’ll stop.” He tucked Dean’s foot under his thigh and began to work on the other boot. “You didn’t answer me. What’s frostnip?” He wanted to add that it sounded like something John Winchester would have coined so he had an excuse not to take Dean to the hospital for frostbite. But he held his tongue. Barely.

His brother sighed. “Like f-frostbite, but not as bad.”

Sam steeled his nerves and asked another question. “Did you have it in both your fingers and your toes or just your fingers?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I s-swear, you’re like a mother hen, S-Sammy.”

Sam’s forehead furrowed beneath his bangs into bitch face number five. “‘Wouldn’t have to be, if you’d just tell me the truth once in awhile,” he muttered. He got Dean’s other foot free of the sodden boot. This foot more closely resembled Dean’s mottled red and purple hand, and he hissed when Sam touched it. Sam gently closed his large hands around his brother’s frigid toes. The cold pierced his skin, but Sam held fast. Once Dean’s foot had warmed to something approaching normal human skin temperature, Sam began to absently rub soothing circles over his brother’s ankle. Dean closed his eyes. Sam could feel the tension he hadn’t even realized was there leaching from his brother’s body.

“You stupid jerk. You should’ve said something! I’d have let you take first shower if I’d known,” Sam said softly. He tried to set Dean’s foot down gently, but when he moved it, Dean hissed and one eye slid open. Sam reached for his brother’s jeans, but Dean waved him off, wide-awake now.

“I got it, bitch,” he snapped, rolling to a sitting position and rising to stand. Dean wobbled and wavered on his feet as he worked off the damp jeans. Sam hovered nearby with his arms out, ready to catch him. Once free of the pants, Sam ordered Dean under the covers, to which his brother protested.

“No, you need to warm up before you take that shower. I’m going to make you some tea.” Sam stomped around the room, taking out his frustration on the grungy carpet of their small motel room. He paused at his duffel long enough to add another hoodie, put on a fresh pair of dry socks, and crank up the heat. Surprisingly, the room had a functional coffee maker, and Sam used it to make his brother a cup of Lipton tea along with a mug of Cup-a-Soup.

He handed the tea to his brother. Dean, thankfully, had finally pulled his arms through the sleeves of Sam’s hoodie and looked more alert. “I’m putting your soup over here,” Sam said, placing the cup on the nightstand. “Drink all of it,” he ordered. “Where are your keys? I need to grab us some dinner.”

Dean indicated the sodden mess of clothes by his bedside. Sam removed Dean’s cell phone and the keys to the Impala from the front pocket of his brother’s filthy jeans. Pointing at Dean, he handed him his phone and the television remote. “Do not even think about moving while I’m gone. When I get back, I’ll help you take a shower.”

His brother, burrowed under the blankets and snug in the hoodie, smirked at him. “Bossy much?” His warming red hands wrapped around the cup of tea.

The tall man rolled his eyes and waved his arms for emphasis as he stomped around. “You could have really gotten hurt, Dean! Once you get frostbite, you’re always more susceptible to the cold.” He stared at his brother. “You know this. Dad taught us this. Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

As Dean peered into his tea, a sudden wave of realization spread over Sam and he had to sit down. “This happened before. When we were kids. You ... you fell in a lake.” Sam felt goosebumps rising on his skin.

His brother’s head snapped up, and the wide eyes Sam locked onto were no longer vacant but embarrassed and slightly panicked. “Sam ...”

“I was playing on a dock by a lake and it was frozen and we were goofing around. You told me to go back to the shore but I wouldn’t and you came after me and -“ Now Sam’s eyes were wide. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“Sammy,” Dean started, moving to get up.

The younger hunter jumped to his feet. “Don’t move! I just got you warmed up!” Sam swore and began to pace again. “How bad is it? I need to know so I can -“

“Sam!” Dean growled. “None of this is your fault, okay? You were four years old. I should’ve done a better job of watching you.”

Sam sat down next to Dean again, and fiddled with the car keys in the pocket of his hoodie. “What happened a year ago?”

“What?”

“You said the frostnip thing happened a year ago.” Sam studied his brother, who shuddered at his words. If he didn’t think it would be unwelcome, he would have wrapped Dean in a hug.

“Oh, that,” Dean shrugged, his words at odds with the increased shivering at the memory. “Dad and I took on a hunt in Maine. White monkey. In winter. Got caught out in the snow.” He set aside the cup of tea with shaking hands.

Sam inhaled deeply, trying to keep his temper in check. “Let me guess. Dad was fine but you wound up in the ER.”

Dean tipped his head in exasperation. “Wasn’t his fault, Sam. I just ...” And here Dean faltered.

“You just what?” Sam folded his arms and stared at his brother.

“I’m a friggin’ pansy, all right? Is that what you wanna hear? ‘Cause that’s what Dad thought.” He moved to get up, but Sam held him down.

“Dean, I’m not Dad.” He felt his brother’s shrug through the blanket. “And I don’t think that either, okay?” He squeezed his brother’s arm before sitting back. “But we are going to have to make some accommodations if we want to hunt in winter.”

His brother peeked out at him from the bundle of blankets. “Like what?”

“Thermos of coffee, hot packs.” Sam smiled. “How about you always get first shower when we hunt in the cold?”

“Only if you take first shower when it’s hot. Man, you reek when you sweat.” Dean gave him a small smile back. Sam knew they’d left chick flick territory when Dean added, “Where’s my food, bitch?”

“Jerk.” Sam stood up and moved to the door. “Burger and fries?”

Dean nodded. As Sam left, he heard a very faint reply. “Thanks, Sammy.”


End file.
